


They Thrust Their Fists Against the Posts and Still Insist That There's Hope

by sa00harine



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Bill Denbrough-centric, F/M, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, OT7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:14:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24189484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sa00harine/pseuds/sa00harine
Summary: While still struggling with being fresh out of college and finding their footing in their respective careers, the losers navigate a long-standing issue- why Bill detests and refuses to open up to them. It's not easy when stress is high, but they figure it out. They'll always find a way. Even if it takes a little push or shove.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Ben Hanscom, Bill Denbrough/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Eddie Kaspbrak, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon/Ben Hanscom/Eddie Kaspbrak/Beverly Marsh/Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris, Bill Denbrough/Richie Tozier, Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris
Comments: 11
Kudos: 70
Collections: Poly Losers Club Fic Exchange Vol.2





	They Thrust Their Fists Against the Posts and Still Insist That There's Hope

**Author's Note:**

> Hii!! This is for the Poly Losers Fic Exchange vol. 2! <3  
> Also, excuse if there's any strange formatting. I use a chromebook issued from my school but they shut down all accounts that aren't school-related, so here we are posting on my phone, aha. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!

From the first day they all met Bill, they all shared one thing. Admiration- admiration that would bend and twist and melt and solidify into eventual love. Though Bill disagreed with the sentiment, he was the clear leader of the Loser’s Club to the rest of them. Always had been. 

He met Richie and Stan first, before grade school, when all three were young and Richie was the loud kid who none of the attendants could get to fall asleep during nap time and whom Bill would watch when he couldn’t sleep, either. Stan was the boy with his face hidden and curls hanging over a picture book of birds- only talking in order to occasionally ask questions or tell the class a fun fact when they sat around in circle-time. 

It was at recess when they all offically met. It was Richie- glasses too large and too thick for his head and mouth open around some witty joke that was making Stan laugh behind his hand as Richie dragged him over to Bill. He sat by the tables, munching on a sandwich and folding a piece of paper into a boat. 

“Heya,” Richie had said, so loudly that Stan flinched. “Whatcha doin, kid?” 

Bill didn’t talk, really. Not anymore. Just a few months ago he’d gotten in a car accident with his family and the impact of it had- according to the talks he’d had with his mother and the kind lady who encouraged him to learn tongue twisters and other phrases of the like, delayed his speech and given him a stutter. It got frustrating when he had to speak, so he’d stopped trying as much. 

He shrugs. 

“C’mon, cat got your tongue?” Richie asks, plopping down beside him. Stan does too, on his other side. 

“Cuh-car accident,” Bill corrects, trying to soothe a wrinkle in the paper of the boat. He’d tried too hard and it was kind of smooshed now. 

Stan snorts. Bill recalls that fondly- Stan had always had a weird sense of humor. Such an odd sense that it baffled even Richie. They were unbelievable when they teamed up together- Richie’s neverending remarks and comedic timing paired with Stan’s one liners and ability to say the funniest shit Bill’s ever heard with a point-black straight face. 

It had been them three for a while. Then Eddie came along in first grade. He’d fit in seamlessly- the perfect size to ride on the back of Bill’s bike, stubborn enough to rival Richie, and sensible along with that. 

Their eighth grade year they’d picked up Beverly- Richie had found her crying in a bathroom stall, while he’d run into the wrong bathroom to also cry in a bathroom stall- and Ben, who Stan enjoyed studying with and who would ramble on about nerdy things of the like with Richie for as long as he wanted while also enthusiastically being there when Bill wanted his stories proof-read.

Mike came into the picture their freshman year, during the rock fight they’d had with Bowers that one time when Richie gained a black eye and Eddie’s bruised knuckles and split lip had caused a freakout from his mother. When he broke his arm, Bill remembers, his mother had gone on so long and so loudly Eddie had told them all it was at least a 6.9 on the Richter scale.

The Loser’s Club was complete, and they all knew it. Most days if not everyday after school got out they’d be going somewhere to hang out until curfew struck. There was the clubhouse- the hammock Richie and Eddie would tirelessly argue over until Eddie fell asleep in it and Bill pretended not to see how Richie gave faraway looks there every once in a while. He and Mike would sit together and listen to Stan talk about different birds or things he’d picked up in boy scouts. Ben would moon over Beverly when she told him she wanted to hear about how a dam was properly built. These activities carried on to Richie’s house, where Wentworth and Maggie would order pizza and rent movies for them to watch- or Ben’s, where his mother would make some of the best meals they’d ever had while they played board games. At the farm, Mike’s parents would enlist them for help- which usually ended with them playing with the animals to Mike’s amusement. They didn’t go to Stan’s. His parents were stiff- neat and tidy and disliking the rambunctious bunch if they got too rowdy. They never went to Eddie’s. Or Beverly’s. And as time went on, they’d started to go to Bill’s less and less. Bill’s parents had never been the same after losing Georgie, nor had the kids been the same after It. They had been neglectful at first, but eventually they’d turned a blind eye to anything about Bill at all, yet they refused to let him go. 

It got so frustrating that even though Bill hated asking for help- he always had. Something to do with always being perceived as the leader made him pretend he was immune to being taken care of- he’d gone to Richie. Wentworth and Maggie had let him crash there whenever he’d gotten in explosive fights with his parents and it had been okay again. 

-

Today, even, where they’ve all graduated college, they’ve hardly ever seen Bill upset. Mike held him on the anniversary of Georgie’s death last year, and Eddie made sure to distract him whenever father’s day came along- because Bill used to be close with his father before it all happened. When he had writer’s block, Ben, Stan, and Bev would encourage him that it would pass and they’d give him ideas until his eyes lit up and he asked for one of the notepads Ben kept at his desk. There was a designated one they’d filled with ideas, there. But to keep Bill focused on his current novel, they only pulled it when it was necessary. It was Bill’s idea and it worked spectacularly. Richie was also always there when Bill had a long day and needed to blow off some steam. They’d do anything- a movie marathon, make up a game to occupy them for a few hours, and also common for the two of them, fuck the stress out of each other. 

From all of their collective experience, Bill would do anything- anything in the world, rather than cry. 

Usually, they wouldn’t mind. Every man to his own, and all. But for the past few days, Bill had been especially resistant to conversation and hadn’t offered any of them a reason why.

It’s their first year out of college- operating on their own besides occasional support from Richie and Ben’s parents- and they’re all trying to find their footing in terms of balancing their jobs, housekeeping, and each other. 

Mike volunteers at the library fairly often. He’s been trying to find a school that’s hiring for a history teacher, but so far he hasn’t had any luck whatsoever. This has led to many a night where he’ll profusely apologize for not helping hold up the house, to which any one of them would beg to differ. Mike usually makes dinner for them, given the fact he’s a ridiculously good cook. If not a teacher, he would have made an excellent chef. 

Beverly’s operating her own fashion line, just recently being offered the essential space and production team to carry out her vision. And plus, she’s got six willing models at home to work with when she needs it. 

Ben, just a few months ago, had left his job at the old architecture firm he worked at in order to establish his own. It was a rocky process. Some days he’d happily get in touch with people who were willing to work with him, and others he’d scratch out blueprints because he’d been told his ideas wouldn’t work even though he’d obviously planned their execution down to a t. 

Eddie’s a risk analyst at an insurance place, and excelling at his job. Though easily frustrated, he’s been perhaps the luckiest. Though, he works long hours. He’s gone early in the morning until late at night, most days. It’s hard for them not to miss him too much.

Stan’s been otherwise stable at his accounting job, if not bored by sitting at a desk for several hours. He always made sure he found time before or after work to socialize and go on walks, though.

Richie’s got a hosting gig- a night shift, on a radio show and he’s starting to do his sets at local bars and venues. Because of this, he’s never home. Especially not when Bill comes home, fuming, from a meeting with his publisher about the details on the newest draft of his work in progress. 

Mike’s in the kitchen, mixing alfredo into pasta while Beverly assists with cutting pieces of chicken and adding them to the mix. They bump hips as they share the space, half-singing and half-humming along to As Long as You’re Mine from Wicked. Ben’s at the table, notebook open and pencil lightly gliding across the paper to create precise lines. He looks up every few minutes though, eyes soft as he watches Beverly and Mike with a dreamy smile on his face. 

Bill arrives home just as Stan’s descending the stairs, dressed down from his work attire into something more comfortable- plaid pajama pants and a hoodie that’s probably Bill’s, dark grey with even darker grey stripes across it. The clashing patterns make Beverly laugh as she greets him with a kiss on the cheek. His hair is fluffy and damp, an indicator that he’d taken a bath earlier. 

“Where’s Ruh-Richie?” Bill asks, skidding to a halt in the middle of the kitchen when he doesn’t see Richie in the living room. 

Beverly purses her lips, exchanging a look with Mike as she moves away from the counter to reply. “He’s got a late shift, honey. You know he works until early morning on the radio on Mondays.” 

“How l-l-l-long until he’s hu-home?” Bill’s auburn hair was falling in his face as if it had been tugged out from where it usually sits. 

Mike turns, too. “Hey lamb,” he says. “He’ll probably get home around three or four in the morning, but we’re all going to be asleep by then. Okay?” 

Bill nods, but doesn’t offer a verbal reply. In that time, Ben had gotten up. 

“Bill,” he says, abandoning his notebook. “Is something wrong?” 

“The meeting with your publisher,” Stan remembers. He skirts around Beverly and Mike as they move to continue dinner. “Did something bad come up?” 

His stutter gets worse when he’s stressed. That’s a known fact that Bill hates but can’t change. Years of speech therapy have consistently failed to help with that singular area. It drives him up a wall to no end, even though he’s not sure he’d even want to vent if he’d been given the opportunity. 

Richie was one of the ones that made it easy. He’d ask if Bill wanted to be distracted, knowing the answer was yes, and then Bill would get distracted. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. 

“Went f-f-fine,” he says curtly and shoves past the rest to go upstairs. 

“Stan,” Beverly calls as the man is turning on his heel to follow. “Babe, give him some space.” 

The pensive, determined expression on Stan’s face- eyes narrowed and faraway, indicates that those words won’t have any effect on his decision. “He never talks about stuff. It’s not healthy,” he’s saying. 

Mike nods in understanding. “I know, but that’s just his way. If we want to get him to talk to us, we shouldn’t force him to do it right now while he’s all wound up.” 

“You’re right,” Stan acknowledges. “But I’m so tired of him trying to suppress everything.” 

Just as Ben’s opening his mouth to say something, Stan abruptly walks up the stairs. They weren’t surprised- it was true about Stan that if he wanted something done he wouldn’t hesitate to do it. The same went with caring for his partners. 

“Bless him,” Beverly says. “But I don’t think Bill’s going to want to talk about it, no matter how much all of us think it’ll help.” 

“I read the draft he was sending in today and it was really good. I can’t believe his editor keeps finding more to nitpick about it,” Ben says. 

Beverly smiles. “That’s why you’re an architect and not an editor, babe.” 

They both laugh, even Mike as he starts to chuckle as he divides their food onto plates.

By the time Stanley reaches Bill’s room, he finds Bill there with his head in his hands, shoes kicked off and laying on the carpet. His shoulders are tense and Stan can hear the huffing and puffing from the doorway. 

“Bill.” 

Immediately, Bill looks up, neck practically snapping with how fast he transitions between looking at the floor and staring straight at Stan. Stan fights the urge to take a step back under the sharp, intense blue eyes. He hasn’t seen Bill this upset since the time he fought with his parents and gone to Richie’s while Stan was there. 

“What?” Bill asks, looking more like he meant leave me alone. 

Stan exhales through his nose and closes the door behind him, wanting to break past the exterior and see what was wrong. “Blue jay,” he murmurs. Even Bill’s stare softens at the nickname. “What’s wrong?” 

Bill shifts. “B-Buh-Book’s n-not getting p-p-published.” 

“Okay,” Stan starts, going to sit on the edge of the bed beside Bill before Bill shoots up, anger replenished, apparently. 

“It’s n-not okay.”

Stan shakes his head. “No, I was going to say-” 

“I don’t w-w-” Bill sighs. “I don’t want to t-talk about it.” 

There it is. Stan pinches his nose and shuts his eyes for a second while a tense silence falls between them. “Bill, you can’t say that every time.” 

“You cuh-can’t m-make me tuh-talk about stuff.” 

“It’s not good for you,” Stan persuades. “You’re not emotionless and you should stop acting like it.” 

That earns a huff from Bill. He crosses his arms. “I d-don’t act like it.” 

Stan raises an eyebrow in response to that. Bill makes a face. 

Then, oblivious to what had just happened, Mike knocks on the door before letting himself in. “Dinner’s ready,” he says, his smile fading as he looks between the both of them. 

“I’m eating up here,” Bill states. 

“We don’t spend as much time together now that we’re all working,” Mike says, voice smooth as honey. “I know today was hard for you, but please don’t shut yourself out?” 

A conflicted look comes across Bill’s face. He bites his lip and then with one look at Mike, his resolve crumbles. “Okay.” 

That satisfies something in Stan, who gives a ‘thank you,’ before heading downstairs. 

Beverly picks up on his demeanor as soon as he comes down. “What happened?” 

“He won’t open up,” Stan tells her quickly as Mike and Bill follow. 

He catches a sympathetic glance from Ben as he takes a seat at the table, lightened by the appetizing dinner Mike made. The entire kitchen smells like Heaven- alfredo and parmesan cheese and spices. 

“Hey, Bill,” Ben says as Bill also takes a seat on the other side of him. He looked a little nervous, being the only thing between Bill and Stan when they were trading harsh looks with each other. 

“Hey Ben,” Bill says, digging in. “Thanks f-for r-reading my draft yesterday,” he says after he swallows a bite. 

While Ben nods, Mike and Beverly also sit down. 

“Good?” Mike asks. 

“Very,” Beverly answers, slurping up a noodle. 

Mike gathers the last of his chicken onto his next bite, and lifting it to his mouth, he looks at Bill. There’s a small vein in his forehead that never really comes out, but is persistent in going away tonight.

“I’m sorry about your book, baby,” Mike says.

Bill looks up from where he was fidgeting with his napkin. “S fine, Muh-Mikey. We c-can drop it now.” 

“Can we?” Stan asks, sensing a little too late that it was probably the wrong thing to say. 

“Y-” Bill had looked firm but when he mouth caught around the word his face fell. He sighs, looking more defeated than any of them enjoyed seeing him. “Yes.” 

Stan sighs as he takes a sip from his glass of water and Bill puts down his fork. “W-Why do you care so much?” 

He, respectively, puts down his glass, aware that Beverly, Mike, and Ben’s eyes were all on him, awaiting his answer. “Because I love you,” Stan says. “And you never express your emotions to us and you can’t just-” 

“I know,” Bill interrupts. “You tuh-told me already. I a-act like I’m emotionless.” 

Ben’s eyes widen and Beverly inhales sharply. 

“We’re just worried,” Mike adds. “We want you to know you can be open with us. We want to help.” 

Bill shrugs. “You can’t,” he says. “You’re not p-publishers.” 

“Hey.” They all look at Beverly. Her green eyes are focused on Bill. “We can’t publish your book, no. But we can talk you through writing and editing it, or whatever you need.” 

“I need you g-guys to s-s-stop,” Bill gets out. It’s quiet, but it renders the rest of them silent and then there’s only the scraping of kitchenware and their feet moving under the table. 

Ben sighs about a minute in. “Sorry,” he says. 

Bill doesn’t reply, busy with staring down at his bowl like it personally insulted him. 

Then the door opens. Eddie walks through, slinging his bag over his shoulder and putting it down on the coffee table. Only when it occurs to him how quiet it is does he look over his shoulder and turn around. 

“Hi..” he says skeptically. 

“Hey Eds,” Beverly replies, just a little too chipper. 

Instead of skipping around the unusual silence of Bill, Mike, Ben, and Stan, Eddie simply raises an eyebrow and juts his chin out to them with a puzzled look at Beverly. 

“Bill’s book-” 

“I can s-s-s-speak for m-myself.” 

At that, Beverly gives Bill a slightly startled look. They had rules in the house: do your chores. Be nice. Don’t tell Eddie his superstitions are stupid. Let Bill talk even when his stutter is acting up. Don’t interrupt or talk roughly to Bev. She’d told them it reminded her of her father. And even in the climate their household was in right now- constant, usually work-related stress and short tempers, they made the effort not to argue because yelling brought her back to where she grew up. Unsafe and afraid in her own home. They were past that now, and they wouldn’t be going back. 

“Okay, so speak.” Eddie puts his hands on his hips, picking up on the atmosphere at length now and being especially sensitive whenever Beverly was concerned- the both of them coming from abusive homes and after spending frightened nights recounting their nightmares, knew each other’s ticks well. 

Bill sighs. “My book guh-got d-d-declined for p-publica-publication,” he says, looking pained as the words struggle to come out. “And they h-haven’t l-left me alone about it.” 

“Have you considered that it’s because they care?” Eddie asks a bit sharply. He was easily the most stubborn of them all, backed up by Stan, who nods at his question and looks over at Bill. 

The writer looks more than mildly irritated. Actually, he looks about ready to leave. “Cuh-caring w-w-would be giving me space,” he says back. 

Stan sniffs. “You came here looking for Richie,” he says. “You wanted a distraction.” 

A frustrated noise comes from Bill as he stands up from his seat and pushes in his chair. “Whatever I wanted, it wuh-wasn’t you g-guys doing this,” he states icily and after putting his dishes in the sink, walks upstairs. 

“Okay,” says Eddie, his confusion evident in his voice and his discontentment written all over his face. “Is that really all this is about? His book?” He asks as he sits down next to Mike and steals a forkful of his pasta. 

“You want a bowl, hun?” Beverly asks him. Eddie perks up, nodding. She smiles at him and gets up, taking her own dishes and grabbing a bowl to put the pasta in after she warms it up. 

Stan decides to speak up. “He’s mad about his book but I made it worse,” he says bluntly, knowing that was in fact, exactly what he’d done even if his intentions were good. 

“Stanny, you tried to help,” Ben tries, even so. 

He shakes his head. “It didn’t work.” 

“What didn’t work?” Eddie asks. “Why?” 

“Bill never opens up,” Stan says. “I tried to get him to.” 

“You could have waited at least until tomorrow,” Eddie points out. 

More high-strung than he needed to be at this point in the day, Stan rolls his eyes. “Thanks, Eddie. Too late to go back fix now, if you hadn’t noticed.” 

Eddie looks vastly unimpressed, mouth drawn into a straight line. “I was trying to help,” he says. 

“Guys,” Ben urges softly. “Don’t make it worse than it already is, please.” 

“Benny’s right. This is about Bill, not either of you,” Mike adds, squeezing Eddie’s shoulder and massaging it with his thumb. “Let’s all just calm down, okay? We can talk to him in the morning.”

“I’ll be at work,” Eddie and Stan say at the same time. 

Beverly walks up, sliding a bowl up to Eddie as well as a glass of water. “Tomorrow evening. We’ll all be home,” she says. “If we’re going to help him, we should do it together.” She gives a pointed look at Stan, who nods in slightly ashamed agreement. 

Ben raises his hand for a second and puts it back down when he’s captured their attention. “Maybe we shouldn’t make him do anything. He should come to us on his own terms, y’know?” 

“He’s spent too long already avoiding us,” Stan immediately objects. “He’ll never come to us.” 

“You don’t know that,” Eddie says stiffly. 

“And you do?”

Eddie glares in response, only silent because he was chewing a bite of the food. 

“Okay,” Mike says, voice still soft despite the clear dissonance of disappointment there. “Enough. I’m going to go check on Bill.” He moves from the table, moving the leftovers into containers and running water and soap over the dishes in the sink while they listen. “We’re all stressed. We don’t need a fight to make it worse.” 

Leaving Eddie to work through his dinner while Ben and Bev resort to their room and Stan finds a crossword puzzle to ease his mind, Mike ascends the stairs to Bill’s room. 

It’s eerily silent inside. The entire house is weirdly quiet tonight after that, actually. His knock on Bill’s door sounds deafening. 

“Yuh-you don’t need to t-t-try to comfort me, Stu-Stan.” 

Mike frowns. “I’m not Stan. Can you open up?”

Bill does, and when the door opens he looks exhausted. His eyes droop down and his hair was tousled even more than it was when he came home. His lips are drawn into a deep frown that softens just a little bit when he sees Mike. 

“Hey.” 

“Hi,” Mike says, walking in as Bill gives in and fully opens the door. “Didn’t want to leave you alone.” 

“I was d-d-doing f-fine alone,” Bill says. 

He nods. “I know you were, but everybody needs somebody at the end of the day, y’know?” 

His revolve seems to give way a little more and Bill shrugs. “Is Stan sleeping downstairs?” 

“You don’t want him here tonight?” Mike asks. 

“I j-” Bill sucks in a breath. “I just want him to s-stop trying to muh-make me cry.” When Mike gives him a wide-eyed look, Bill holds his hands up and shakes his head. “N-no, no no. Not l-like that. He wants me to express myself.” 

“So expressing yourself would be crying?” Mike sums up. 

Bill points a finger at him. “No m-m-more th-therapizing me,” he says. 

“Okay, yeah, sorry,” Mike says. “I’m done.”  
As Bill changes into a pair of sweatpants and unbuttons his shirt, Mike unmakes the bed. He turns to kiss Bill goodnight when Bill holds him there. “Can you stay?” He asks, their foreheads pressed together. 

Mike smiles. “Of course I can, baby.” He’s already dressed down in a large hoodie and joggers so he sits on the bed and pats the mattress until Bill gives a dramatic fall onto it. As Bill rolls so his hair is a little in his face, blue eyes peering up at Mike, Mike moves his hair and kisses his forehead. “Seriously though, are you doing okay?” 

“I just said-” 

Whatever look Mike gave him at that moment, it causes Bill to slowly shut his mouth. “M fine,” he says even though by his tone, it’s very obvious there’s more to it than just ‘fine.’ 

Mike keeps quiet, giving him the opportunity to keep talking. He takes it. 

“I’m fine, but I’m upset b-because I worked so hard but my p-p-publisher k-keeps finding stuff that’s not right,” Bill says after a while. 

“You know, I think that’s all Stan wanted to hear,” Mike says. 

“I w-wasn’t ready to t-talk about it yet,” Bill replies, clenching his jaw. 

He hums. “That’s okay,” Mike tells him. “Talking about stuff is okay, though. At the end of the day, Stan just wants to be there for you.” 

After giving a resigned sigh, Bill sits up and leans his head on Mike’s shoulder. “S-Should I talk to him?” 

“Tomorrow,” Mike says after a moment. “We should sleep, yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Bill nods. 

The two of them lay down, Bill’s head tucked under Mike’s chin and arms wound around Mike’s waist. With one arm under a pillow and the other slung around Bill’s back, Mike already starts to doze off. He’d spent basically a nine to five hour day at the library carrying stacks of books and putting them in the right places. It wasn’t mundane to him- he never got particularly tired of scanning book titles and reading summaries and diving into the history behind the books, the kinds of people who had checked them out based on how they’d scrawl their name on the little sticker inside. It was fascinating if you cared to look and think. Though, it did get tiring after the first three hours and Mike was happy to be here now. 

He was never one to sleep easy despite being so weary, so he lets his mind wander. Being the helper, Mike thinks about all that had happened. Stan’s good intentions being too overbearing and forbidding, and Bill still emotionally vulnerable and not ready for the approach despite it being out of love. It was a simple misunderstanding but with a lengthy history of all the other times Bill had reacted poorly to them trying to help. 

There was the time he’d gotten so frustrated over his debut novel- something about plot holes, that he’d actually punched a hole in the wall. Beverly hadn’t spoken to him for two days after and Ben had very clearly put on a customer service front to Bill as he patched up said hole in the wall. When Stan had tried to talk him down, he’d resisted. Following that, when he’d gotten what was likely a seething call from his parents, Bill had stomped out of the room. He was obviously on his way to Richie’s room, when Stan had stopped him with an offer to talk about it. Bill had declined, and the sound of loud, cheesy movies had come from Richie’s room for hours that night. 

Bill was getting help, but in the form of distractions. Because above all, Bill was a nurturer and a leader. Not somebody who would break. Somebody who would fix. He’d proved that. When Richie had gotten heckled during his first show, Bill had been the one to shout over the guy with how loud he was cheering. When Beverly needed to submit pictures of herself in the outfits she’d made for her classes, Bill had been quick to learn how to use a camera, even if he was a little clumsy. The same went for when Mike was lacking confidence, Stan needed someone that felt like home to talk to, Ben was searching for a second opinion, and Eddie was looking for somebody who wouldn’t judge him for worrying, and who instead would be grateful for it.

He was always there. The only person Bill refused to help was Bill. And that’s what Stan was aspiring to get to the bottom of. The problem was, Stan was using the approach he’d give himself- not one fit for Bill. From Mike’s experience, you needed to give it time and comfort. Not a push or a shove. 

As he comes to this conclusion and is ready to sink into the open arms of sleep, a long-winded sigh comes from the Bill. Mike thinks it’s just sleep, but then Bill shifts and rolls onto his back. 

“Can’t suh-sleep,” he murmurs, looking up at the ceiling. 

Bill suffered from insomnia for as long as they could remember. It was easier on him these days but he still had his nights. 

Mike nods, already getting up. “Melatonin?” 

A thankful smile from Bill that even in the dark, lights up his face. “Thanks.” 

As he’s making his way down the stairs, Mike picks up the sound of somebody shuffling around the house. He stiffens, thinking somebody could have broken in, but then relaxes upon remembering it was just Richie arriving home. Oh, so it was that late already. 

Swallowing a displeased hum and the fact he has to be up again in a few hours, Mike offers a wave. Richie, who was untying his shoes, gives a nod in response. 

Mike cuts past him into the kitchen and beelines to their medicine cabinet. 

“Mikey,” Richie says, following after he’d kicked his shoes off. His voice was hoarse and low and drowsy, as it always was after he came home. After all, he’d been speaking on the radio for who knows how long. 

He turns around, opening his arms. “Go well, Rich?” 

Richie smiles. “Mhm,” he says. “Boutta collapse,” he says, making truth of that when he all but falls into Mike’s arms. Mike brings him closer and feels Richie’s head fall onto his shoulder, glasses grazing his back.

“You can sleep in tomorrow, baby,” Mike replies. “‘M proud of you.” 

A small, content laugh. “Yeah, thanks,” says Richie, taking a step back. He raises his eyebrows. “Oh, hey. What’re y’doing up?” 

“Melatonin for Bill,” Mike answers. Then it occurs to him Richie probably wasn’t caught up on the past events. He wondered if now was the time. Richie was never one for patience. 

He scratches at his face, making the glasses tilt askew to the left. “He okay? Never usually needs it unless something’s wrong.” 

Mike makes a so-so gesture with his hand, unsure whether or not to elaborate from there. 

“Don’t leave me hanging there, Mikey.” Richie stifles a yawn. “What happened?” 

“Argument,” he says quickly. When Richie’s eyes go alert, he shakes his head. “Nothing bad! Just- you know how Bill never talks about his feelings?” 

Richie nods. “Comes to me and does anything but talk about it.” 

“Yeah,” Mike agrees. “Well, his book got declined publication-” 

A sympathetic oh geez from Richie and then he made a gesture to keep talking. 

Mike did. “Stan tried to get him to talk and apparently went too far. At dinner we all kinda-” He shrugs. “Said some things. I’m trying to get him to sleep so he stops thinking about it for tonight.” 

“Oh,” Richie says. “I’m sorry I wasn’t-” 

“It’s fine.” They both turn their heads and see Stanley in the doorway. “I just wanted a glass of water,” he says in response to the looks on their faces. 

Richie breaks away from Mike and approaches Stan, embracing him in a sloppy side hug. With a sleepy noise, Stan goes. “Too late, Rich,” he says softly without any of his usual heat. 

“Top’a the morning to you too, Staniel,” Richie replies. “You doing okay?” 

He steps away to pour himself some water and gives a half-shrug. “I feel bad,” Stan says. “But on the other hand, I feel like I did something necessary.” 

“You sound like a parent,” Richie says. 

Stan gives him a look that translates as, if it didn’t expend energy and take away from his sleepwalking state, he would flick Richie on the forehead. Richie smiles and he smiles back. Mike watches the interaction with adoring eyes and then flushes when they both turn to look at him in tandem. 

Stan sips at his water. “I’ll fix it,” he tells them. With a tilt of his glass, he downs the rest of his drink. “Goodnight.” 

“Love you,” Richie says, affection clear in his voice as Stan gives him a soft look and leaves, probably to Mike’s unused room. 

“Get some rest, doll,” Mike calls at the same time, not missing the small smile on Stan’s face as he goes. 

Richie nods at the stairs. “I’m gonna catch some z’s too.” He leans in for a chaste kiss, which Mike indulges for a couple of seconds.

“Go to bed, honeybug.” 

“Can’t say no to those eyes,” replies Richie, turning on his heel and leaving Mike alone in the kitchen. 

Feeling a bit more hopeful, Mike grabs a couple of melatonin gummies and starts back upstairs to Bill’s room.

Bill’s there. His eyes are closed and as he’s kneeling by the edge of the bed, Mike thinks he may have fallen asleep until Bill rolls over and smiles sleepily at him. He makes grabby hands with the one hand that isn’t tucked under the pillow and Mike drops the melatonin into his hand. 

“Thank y-you,” Bill says. 

Mike hums and crawls back into bed, eyes already closed as Bill nudges his way under his arm and in kind he wraps them back around Bill. 

-

He wakes up to Bill waving to somebody as they duck back behind the door and close it. Still groggy, Mike opens his eyes and looks at Bill. There’s a smile on his face, which is good. 

“Ben m-muh-made pancakes. He j-just came in here t-t-to tell us,” he says, looking a bit discouraged when he keeps getting caught by the stutter. 

Mike cups his face in one hand, satisfied when Bill’s attention turns to him instead of internally grilling himself for the slip ups. “Let’s go get some,” he encourages. 

He falters when Bill hesitates. “What is it, lamb?”

“St-Stan’s down there, Ben told me.” 

“You don’t want to see him?” 

Bill sighs. “I d-don’t know. Is it stupid to be mad? I f-feel like I’m being immature.” 

“No.” Mike shakes his head, making his voice gentle. “It’s not stupid, Bill. You’re allowed to be mad. That’s not immature, that’s just how you reacted. It’s okay.” 

He looks just a little reassured. “Are you mad?” Bill asks after a second. 

Mike shakes his head. “I’m not mad, Stan isn’t mad, Eddie isn’t mad. Nobody’s mad. I promise you,” he replies earnestly. 

“Stan suh-seemed mad.” 

“He was just worried. He cares about you a lot,” Mike says. “We all do.” 

Mike has to be at the library by nine in the morning, and Bill thinks he should start editing around ten. They woke up at eight-thirty, so not half-way through breakfast, Mike is kissing the crown of Bill’s head and getting up to leave. 

It was already just a little awkward, with Ben and Bev scrambling to make conversation while Stan sat stiffly across from Bill and meticulously cut his pancake into bites and Eddie ate like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. But now the walls seemed to be closing in a little closer- made just a pinch more suffocating in the wake of Mike leaving. 

If he looked out of focus, everything seemed normal. The silhouettes of the five of them eating as Mike kissed their cheeks on his way out the door. The tall, soft at the edges frame of Ben with his arm around Beverly, sharper and talking with her hands about a business deal Bill keeps zoning in and out of. Stan’s intensely quiet and leisurely form as he lifts the fork to his mouth and the sun hits his brown eyes to turn them amber. The only specimen Bill sees inside are his pupils, pinpointed on shit- him. 

Stan doesn’t look pleased, but he doesn’t look irritated either. He gives Bill a nod and for some unknown reason that conjures up a confounding mix of emotion for the other, who averts his eyes to his plate.

The sound of a chair being pushed indicates Eddie getting up. He looks at Bill first, stare surprisingly devoid of any ill feelings, perhaps just slight confusion. “See you tonight, babe,” he says before giving the others a half-smile and a wave as he grabs his bag where he left it and leaves. 

Bill is starting to relax a bit, tension seeping from his shoulders and eyes dropping from scanning the room every so often, when the telltale creaking of the stairs precedes Richie’s appearance. 

He’s bedraggled, hair sticking out in every direction and his undereyes are a bit dark. Richie in his prime after an especially late show. A large white shirt- presumably one of Ben or Mike’s hangs off him, accompanied by green and black patterned boxers. 

“Good morning to you Ben Handsome,” Richie gushes, grabbing a plate and the last few pancakes. 

Ben replies with a smile and slightly red face. “Morning, Rich.” 

Richie plops down in Mike’s empty seat, slinging an arm around Bill. “And you, Billy.” He nods at Stan and Bev. “And you two, Urine and Marsh.” He gives them all a beaming smile. “How did we sleep?” 

“I had a nice dream,” Beverly says with a soft, sort of magical smile. She looks over at Ben and he returns a smile of his own. Bill bites back a smile at just seeing the intimate exchange. 

“On a scale of Bill’s occasional night terrors to Eddie’s occasional wet dream, where was it?” Richie asks Beverly. 

She snorts, waving him off and pointedly not providing an answer. 

Shrugging, Richie turns his attention onto Stan. “What about you?” 

Going by the way Stan flinches, Richie kicked him under the table. His head snaps from lowering his fork to his empty plate and to Richie, and all but tucked into his side, Bill. 

“Didn’t dream,” Stan says. 

“Slept fine,” Bill supplies when Richie looks at him. “Missed y-you, though.” 

The unmistakable sound of Stan scoffing is heard. 

“What?” Bill asks, with more bite to it than he intended. 

Stan gives a shrug that was obviously meant to look nonchalant but ultimately failed at that objective. “Nothing,” he says. “Just funny how you don’t even care about what happened last night.” His hand waves dismissively in Bill and Richie’s direction. “You’re back in the cycle.” 

“Cyc-Cycle?” Bill asks, while Richie’s arm moves from around him to give him space. “Hey, Stan-” Richie’s saying before he’s interrupted with a small noise from Beverly, who was definitely antsy what with the conflict. 

For a split second, the table is quiet. Just encapsulated in thick, uncomfortable anticipation. Stan stands up. “I have to go,” he says.

Richie raises his hand. “So you’re just gonna pretend you didn’t say what you just said or…?” He asks, hand moving in sync with his words. 

Stan’s eyes go to Bill, much less calm than they were earlier. “You wanna elaborate, Bill?” 

Ben gives Stan a look. “Baby, we don’t need to escalate this anymore,” he says while Richie leans over to Bill again, saying under his breath “I know you guys fought, but what do I have to do with it?” 

“Standylion, let me drive you?” Beverly offers. Stan shakes his head and turns to leave. As soon as the door closes, Beverly briskly follows.

Bill leans his head on Richie’s shoulder. “I duh-don’t know,” he says, although the puzzle pieces are starting to connect in his head and he either doesn’t want to admit Stan’s right or admit it all to himself, so he leaves it at that. 

-

Editing goes about as well as you’d expect it to when you’re preoccupied with a kind of sort of fight with one or more of your partners. Bill gets through some minor spelling mistakes that he can attribute to simply typing fast, and removes one scene that he’d personally really liked but his editor hadn’t before quitting. 

As he’s booting down the computer- his typewriter was only for first-time drafts, and this book was probably on something like its forth draft by now,- Richie walks in. 

Clearly he’d just showered. His hair’s damp and fluffy by the looks of it, and he has on a graphic tee shirt and sweatpants. He waves at Bill and jumps onto the bed. 

“Hey,” Richie says. There’s something heavy weighing down his usual cheerful dissonance and it makes Bill turn around in his wheely chair. 

“Hi.” 

Richie smiles at him. “Editing?” He asks. 

He scoffs and nods. “How’d you know?” 

“Because you look like how I feel when I need a smoke.”

Bill shrugs. Accurate. He watches as Richie grabs one of his pillows and curls around it. Most of the time he looks sleepy nowadays. Obviously it was the night shift, but it tugged at Bill’s chest and made him wish Richie would get the daytime promotion already. He’d heard Richie on there and he was incredible. The kind of incredible that would be on stage getting tours someday. He just wasn’t there yet. None of them were there yet. Just part of the process. 

Catching his eye, Richie winks. “See something you like?” 

“You wuh-wish,” Bill quips. He feels his frustration over the book start to calm. It was easy with Richie. That’s why he came to him above all the others. No sympathy and nothing asked of him- just back and forth chatter and shit until he forgot what the problem was for a little while. 

Richie hums, rolling over with the pillow to his chest and his chin in his hand, large magnified eyes behind his glasses looking right through Bill. “What was Stan talking about this morning?” He asks. 

Bill breathes out through his nose. “It’s n-n-nothing, Rich.” 

All he gets in response is a single raised eyebrow. 

“I juh-just was looking f-for you when I g-got home last night,” Bill says. “Because you know whene-whenever I’m-'' He loses his words and looks at Richie, leaving it to him to connect the dots. 

He does, and he does it too precisely. “Whenever you’re upset about something you come to me for a distraction,” Richie sums up. “Not to mention that half the time you pretend the problem goes away after I suck your dick.” 

Bill opens his mouth and then closes it- gapes around open air, basically, for longer than he should. Richie doesn’t look mad, just unimpressed. 

“I’m not wrong,” he says after a minute has passed. 

“You’re not,” Bill admits. 

Richie sits up. “Why?” 

“Richie..” 

“Don’t ‘Richie’ me, babe,” Richie says, not harshly, but that’s almost worse than if he was cold like Stan or snappy like Eddie would be. “You’ve been doing this since we got together. All of us. It’s not healthy, y’know?” He traces patterns on the pillow. Bill thinks they’re stars. “Stan isn’t wrong either. Sometimes talking about shit is… good.” He looks a little conflicted. “And that means something coming from me.” Richie laughs. “You know I was the king of repressing things, but I promise you, Bill, it’s good and sometimes you really do feel a bit better afterwards.” 

He shrugs. “It is when y-y-you c-can actually tuh-talk.” And saying that in itself is so cathartic Bill feels a lump in his throat. It’s always been the stutter holding him back and making everything worse. It wasn’t their fault by any means, but the others took talking for granted. 

Richie’s lips form an ‘o’ as he sits back, concern now coming across his face as well as realization. “Is that what this is about, sweetheart?” His voice is saccharine, full of emotion and compassion, and that’s too much to handle for Bill at the moment. 

“He keeps just-” Beverly sweeps her arm like a knife cutting the air. “- running away, and I’m sick of it,” she says. “I love him so much, you love him so much! We all fucking do, and he knows that. But he still can’t talk to us?” She sucks in an exasperated puff of air, shaking her head as she paces the room. 

Ben, laying on his stomach on their bed, watches her and nods in response. “I think he’s getting there,” he tries. “Mike texted me today that he opened up a bit last night.” 

She shrugs. “A bit isn’t that much.” 

“It’s something,” Ben remarks. “Progress.” 

“I guess so,” Beverly obliges. She slowly sits on the bed, laying her head on a pillow next to Ben. “Just want him to feel like he can come to us, is all.” 

He agrees. “No, yeah. You’re right. We want the best for him and him not talking about how he feels isn’t the best, you’re not the bad guy for trying to help. Neither are Stan and Eddie. We just need to sort everything out and talk it through, I’m sure.” 

Beverly nods, reaching up to play with the hair that was hanging a little as Ben looked down at her. He smiles and she does too. 

“You think we’re all gonna be okay?” 

“Of course,” says Ben. “Just a bump in the road. We’re all stressed and this is bound to happen, but it’ll always end up okay.” 

Looking assured, Beverly sighs. “I just want to skip to when his book gets published and we all get on our feet,” she says dreamily. 

Ben smiles. “We’ll get there,” he tells her. It sounds something like a promise. 

“We will,” she replies. “You get any good news for your company?” 

“Not a thing,” Ben laughs, a little let down but optimistic enough. “You?” 

She hums. “A few emails from modeling agencies who saw the clothes and want to try them out.” 

Ben sits up and she laughs. He’s smiling. “Wait, really?” 

She nods several times, biting her lip as if it would stop the wide grin from spreading across her face. 

“Oh my god, babe, that’s great!” 

She laughs and they hug, both basking in the success. 

“I’m so proud,” Ben says after a moment. “I knew they were good. We all did.” 

“Even when Richie accidentally tore that one blouse in half and I had to start from scratch?” 

“It was so pretty he had to at least try to wear it,” Ben laughs. 

-

The rest of that day passes, uneventful as Richie comes to terms with the epiphany about why Bill wasn’t talking, and more so, that it made sense. So much fucking sense. 

He sits in his chair, headphones so tight they would definitely leave behind a headache, babbling an even blend of scripted stuff and improv into the mic, going a little ham on the sound effects keyboard. But hey, it was late and he’d earned the right to insert a loud horn sound after he told a joke. 

While he advertises the same establishment for what feels like the hundredth time, he mulls over it more. The issue was always there, from when they were kids to now. Always. He’d watched firsthand the developments of Bill fighting against the stutter, spitting out sentences to Richie, Stan, and Eddie in the splash zone while he struggled, to giving short, subdued, and monosyllabled answers in defeat. 

Sharon and Zack Denbrough had stopped his speech therapy around his sophomore year, the catalyst to Bill, whose stutter wasn’t sufficiently improved enough to even think about stopping, merely carrying the plight and talking less. At the time, they hadn’t so much noticed what with other events- Ben’s fight to get on the track team and Beverly finally moving in with her aunt who was considering moving somewhere in Derry to see her more often anyway. 

So no wonder it would result in this. Bill probably had so much to say but the damn filter across his mouth he’d never asked for shut him up- made him bite back replies to Richie’s jokes, commentary, and obviously how he felt when he was especially upset. 

Richie hopes he remembers this when he inevitably gets home and crashes later tonight. If he can get that across to Stan, maybe they could all just sensibly talk through it instead of pointing hands.

He does remember it, still thinking it over by the time he drops into bed next to Eddie. 

Eddie’s eyes open quick- he’d always been a light sleeper. He smiles at the sight of Richie and throws the blankets over the both of them, humming as Richie wraps his arms around him. 

“Any more arguing?” Richie asks.

“Nope,” Eddie supplies. “Ben and Bev made flatbreads for dinner and made us watch a movie. It was kind of nice, actually.” He gives his hand to Richie, who intertwines their fingers and kisses the back of it. “But nobody really talked. Just a lot of weird stares and Ben telling us the movie got better eventually.” 

Richie laughs. “Did it?” 

“Nope.” 

He laughs even more, having to be muffled by Eddie’s hand and the pillow. “Benny did his best,” Richie tries. “How was Bill?” 

“Brought his computer down but I don’t think he wrote anything.” 

It hits him. “It’s his stutter,” Richie says instantly. 

Eddie blinks. “What?” 

“His stutter,” Richie says. “It’s why he doesn’t talk to us. We were talking earlier and he said that talking to us would be easier if he could actually talk. And then he got up and left. I think saying it out loud kind of shocked him.” 

“Fuck,” Eddie breathes, shaking his head. “I told him to just speak when this whole thing started.” 

“Hey.” Richie pries Eddie’s hands from his face and looks him in the eyes. “Bill’s strong. It’s okay, you didn’t know. We just have to fix it.” 

Eddie nods, looking like he’s about ready to pass out again despite the fire in his eyes. “Promise?” 

The feeling of Eddie’s head against his chest and his hands on Eddie’s hips. The presence of Stan on the other side of the wall, sleeping and worrying about the same thing all out of love. Ben and Bev, doing their absolute best to mend things- natural caretakers, always trying to fix. To make better. To nurture. Then Bill, who he’d heard went to Mike’s room, secure now, and full of heart and so many things to say that they were yet to hear. Richie nods, kissing Eddie’s forehead. 

“Promise.”

-

The same stony silence of the household carried to breakfast that morning. All of them had work and plans that day, so there wouldn’t be much dialogue anyway. It was still a little disheartening to Bill, who was nursing the last few cheerios in his cereal. 

Beverly’s out the door first, having booked an early meeting with an agency. She’s met with a kiss from Ben and a warm embrace from Richie, being sent out the door with an encouraging kiss on the cheek, ‘for good luck’ from Stan. 

Next is Mike and Ben. They’re making food tonight so they were planning to go shopping together. They all wave goodbye and with affectionate pet names and blown kisses, they’re driving away. 

And then there were four. Bill, spinning his spoon around in the milk and chasing one of five last cheerios. Richie, nodding off with his head on Stan’s shoulder while he reads something on his phone, hand carding through Richie’s hair. Richie would usually be asleep if not for waking up when he felt Eddie leave the bed. Eddie, who was standing at the toaster in wait for his toast with his eyes on the three of them at the table. 

It’s almost content silence. Willful. But if not for the fact Bill felt like the rest would be engaging in conversation if he weren’t there. 

He shrugs it off, thinking he’ll just lay low until it blows over and Richie and Eddie quit looking at him like he’s a kicked puppy and Stan like Bill’s a bird he finds morbidly interesting. Bill raises the cereal bowl, just milk now, to his lips, and slurps up the milk. 

“Eugh,” spits Eddie. “That’s disgusting, Bill,” he says. Bill’s just grateful there’s nothing actually negative in his voice. 

Bill puts the bowl down, raising an eyebrow. “Wh-why?” 

“There was cereal in there. It’s not milk, it’s like-” Eddie makes a litany of hand gestures. “-soggy cereal bits mixed in with it and-” Richie laughs as he makes an exaggerated gagging noise. 

“It’s still just cereal,” Richie says, smiling at Bill. 

“No,” objected Eddie. “It’s not. There’s not any actual cheerios left, so it’s just gross.” 

Stan lowers his phone. “Same thing you eat with the spoon, Eddie.” 

As they bicker, Bill watches, turmoil between his ears and behind his eyes calming down and reminding him of something outside of stress and frustration. Richie was laughing, raising a hand to point at Eddie, while Eddie, red-faced, crossed his arms and shook his head. That’s how it always was between them. He’s enjoying the interaction when he feels a tap on his shoulder. 

Bill flinches, whirling around. It’s Stan, looking more unsure and tentative than Bill had seen him before. “Hey,” he says, soft. “Can we talk?” 

His stomach drops. He nods anyhow, getting up to follow Stan into the living room. 

They stand, neither sitting on the soft, cushiony deluxe couch that cost them more than they liked to admit, but both looking at it as if they wanted to. Alas, they weren’t nearly relaxed enough to do so. 

“Okay,” says Stan. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have tried to force something out of you while you were trying to process, I know that must have been overwhelming-” 

Seeing Stan, easily the most outwardly composed of all of them, rambling helplessly like a fish out of water, dissipates anything left of Bill’s anger. He wasn’t even really angry, just defensive and not in the mood for what had occured, making it all the worse. He shakes his head. “Stuh-Stan, Stan.” 

Stan stops, slowly closing his mouth and blinking vacantly at him. 

Bill inhales before talking. “I’m not m-m-mad, I never w-was. Trust me. I’m sorry for luh-lashing out.” 

“I might have done the same,” Stan replies. He holds his hand out and his face brightens when Bill takes it, swinging their hands back and forth. 

“You’re t-too wise for that,” Bill says, smiling. 

Stan laughs. “Are we okay now?” 

“We’re okay,” Bill answers, nodding.

Stan’s hand is cold in his grip. Bill squeezes it, watching as Stan picks up their hands to kiss the back of Bill’s. “I love you, blue jay.” 

He leans in to peck Stan’s cheek. “I love you too.” 

As he’s pulling back, Stan tugs him to stay with the hand he has in his grip. “We were all going to talk tonight. After Mike and Ben’s dinner and dessert and stuff. If you’re comfortable with it, we’d like you to talk, too. We don’t mind if you stutter or slip up, we never do.” 

Bill connects the dots. Richie had probably told Eddie about the stutter being why he didn’t express everything, who had told Stan, who had told Mike, who told Ben, who told Bev. That’s his prediction, but either way in any order, the progression still made sense after the small thing he’d let Richie in on. 

Not a small thing anymore. Bill traces a small shape into Stan’s hand with his thumb, coming to terms that it’s about time he let all this go. Internalized frustration, trying to keep night terrors like his own a secret, everything he’d never told them because he felt like he couldn’t get the words out. 

“I’ll be there,” he promises. 

-

Richie was off today- no shift on the radio show, so while the rest either worked from home or went to work, he occupied himself with dragging them away when things got stressful. He and Bill worked an unspoken mutual agreement to not acknowledge yesterday’s discussion, so when he ambled into Bill’s room and gripped the back of his chair, using the momentum to spin it away from the desk and towards him, Bill didn’t feel put on the spot. He felt happy. 

“Yes?” He asks Richie, hands aching a little from the fast typing. He’d been squishing a scene in between two other scenes. One he really didn’t think was necessary, but his editor argued was crucial.

“Can I bother my boyfriend without him thinking I'm expecting anything?” 

He smiles, hands going to cup Richie’s face instead. This scene, he imagined, was one he wanted to have. “You may.” 

Richie kisses him. Once, twice, three times, in quick succession. “How’re you doing today?” 

“G-Good,” Bill answers. He follows the line of Richie’s stubble with his thumb. “You?” 

“Just dandy,” says Richie. “How long have you been writing?” 

Bill puts a finger on his own chin and taps it. “You suh-said you exp-p-pected nothing but now I’m beginning tuh-to feel like I’m in an investigation.”

“How tragic,” Richie replies. “Should I guess instead?” 

He scoffs. “Five hours.” 

Richie’s eyes go wide. “Oh dear,” he exclaims, voice pitched similar to that of a gameshow host. “It seems we have a situation on our hands-” He stands up, making a grand gesture with his hands to Bill. “This man is in need of a break!” He takes one of Bill’s hands. “His fingers are about to fall off from all that typing- hell, the keyboard’s begging you to take a hint!” He cups Bill’s forehead. “And shit, he’s running hot. Is it stress? Is it pure rage at his editor? Nope, it’s in need of a break!” 

He’d been laughing from the start, but he fills the silence after Richie’s done with bubbly laughter, taking Richie’s hand in his and pulling until Richie’s on his lap. 

“You have something in mind, Billiam?” 

“Duh-don’t c-call me that,” Bill tells him, wrapping his arms around Richie’s shoulders for a hug. Richie’s lanky. His knees dig into Bill’s thighs and his collarbone jabs Bill on the shoulder, but that’s what makes it all the more grounding for him. Not picture-perfect. Not something he’d ever include if he were writing it. Real and human instead. 

Richie flicks Bill’s forehead. “I won’t if you learn to back away from the computer once and a while. You and Ben, god.” He wipes fake sweat off his forehead. “The two of you complain that the other’ll work himself to death but little do you know it’s both of you.” 

“Okay,” Bill says, raising his hands up. “You’ve got me, ‘Chee.” 

-

They’re all downstairs by six-thirty, when the ones who worked outside of home are usually about to trickle in. Ben, dragged out of his room and away from a burdensome afternoon of calls that were leading nowhere by Richie, was in the kitchen, idly chattering with Mike while they got started on meatloaf and a batch of chocolate chip cookies. 

A killer combo, Bill thought from his place curled up on the couch with Richie while the other alternates between looking at his phone and some loud movie on the TV.

Eddie comes home first, surprisingly early and in a companionable mood. He leaves his bag at the door and is already shrugging off his blazer as he kneels by the couch Richie and Bill are sat at. 

“Hey,” he says, kissing each of them on the cheek. “How are we?” 

Bill’s answering with a simple ‘good, you?’ when Richie nudges him. “This one wrote for five hours straight.” 

Eyes bugging out a little, Eddie swats Bill on the forehead. “Bill!” 

Richie laughs and Bill gives them both an incredulous look. “W-W-Why do you b-both do that?” 

“Do what?” Eddie asks. 

“Go f-for my forehead!” 

All three laugh as Bev walks through the door. She smiles at them before running full speed and jumping onto the couch. “Hi,” she tells them, reaching for a pillow to hold to her chest. Richie lets himself fall, head landing on said pillow, while, like a domino effect, Bill falls too, head handing on Richie’s hip. Eddie snorts, getting up to join them and squeezing in on Bill’s other side. 

Hand already trailing through Richie’s hair, Beverly flashes a grin at them all. 

“How was work?” Eddie asks her. 

She blows him a kiss. “I am now collaborating with a modelling agency, and I get to monitor all the shoots,” she announces. 

Richie props himself up on his elbow. “Shit, Bev, that’s fucking amazing!” 

Ben and Mike leave the kitchen. There’s flour on Mike’s cheek and on Ben’s hands, which Bill internally laughs at, as they get closer. 

“Did they say yes?” Ben asks Bev. 

“Mhm!” She nods, smile splitting her face. 

From where they are, Richie starts a group hug by moving past the pillow to properly hug her. Head on Richie’s shoulder, Bev beams at Bill as he follows, feeling Eddie’s arms bracketing him as Eddie goes along too. Mike moves behind Bev, arms reaching to both her and Richie, while Ben crouches at the edge of the couch and slots himself where he can. 

They’re so wrapped up in being happy for Bev that when the door opens and closes the final time none of them quite realize. 

“Something happened,” Stan says. “Please let it be good.” 

Beverly pokes her head out from the bunch. “I promise you it is, Stanny baby.” 

“What’re you waiting for, sweetie? Bring it in?” 

With a soft look at Mike for saying that, Stan does.

-

The meatloaf is great, thanks to Mike. And Ben’s cookies are still being put into the oven in batches. 

Over dinner, they congratulate Beverly on her achievement and exchange future plans on how they’ll go about theirs. Eddie’s after a promotion after the head of his department left the job, while Richie aspires to return to a normal, assuming sleep schedule when he gets a day shift. Ben’s working hard to get commissioned on a project, and Stan’s pretty content as of now but he’d jump at the chance for something bigger. Mike brings home news too, this of an interview with a school just a few miles away. It was the first one he’d asked and after months, they finally had a spot. They were all elated.

When it comes around to Bill, he shoves a large forkful of the meatloaf in his mouth in hopes he doesn’t have to own up to essentially writing up another entire draft out loud. 

“Bill?” Mike asks. Oh, joy. 

He chews for so long Richie has to muffle snickering with his fist and Stan’s eyes go from curious to flat. At the limit of their patience, he clears his throat. 

“Another draft,” Bill tells them, quieter than he likes to admit. 

“A what?” Ben asks. Bill’s not sure if he genuinely didn’t catch that or if he’s encouraging him. Either way, he goes along. 

Bill sits up, putting his fork down. “I n-n-need to write another draft.” 

“Can I read it when you’re done?” 

That makes him smile. “Of course, Benny.” 

Stan looks at them, a warm look on his face. “I can give you a neck massage while you write,” he offers. 

The way Bill perks up and nods makes everyone laugh. 

Easy conversation continues between all of them. However, it just about causes a riot when Beverly and Richie try to satiate their sweet tooth by digging into the cookie dough that hasn’t been used yet. Ben doesn’t mind, in fact, he smiles at the both of them. 

“Yeah, go for it,” he says warmly when Richie asks. 

The two cheer and go for spoons, electing to get spoonfuls that weren’t spoonfuls but large dollops that happened to balance on a spoon and feed each other. As they’re both tipping the spoons toward each other’s mouths, Eddie looks up from his plate and makes a loud, abrupt, noise. 

“No, salmonella,” He cries. “Guys, c’mon!” 

Nobody else so much as raises a finger. Eddie gives them all a desperate look and then resigns himself to taking another bite of his food. “Have fun being sick and don’t say I didn’t warn you.” 

“Hey Eds,” Richie says after he and Bev had put the spoons in the sink and high-fived.

Eddie, straight-faced, stares back at Richie. “What?” 

“I love you, cutie.” 

The table goes quiet in anticipation, Bill smiling and Ben trying to hide a similar smile. Mike and Stan are giving each other looks while Beverly goes back to sit down with a small “compliments to the chef,” aimed at Ben. 

“That’s all Mikey,” Ben replies. Mike gives a small little bow, the best he could manage while sitting.

Eddie gives in eventually. “I love you too, don’t complain when your stomach hurts.” 

“You love it when I talk,” objects Richie. 

“Do I?” Eddie asks. “Do I really?” 

Leave it to everybody else at the table to answer with a “yes!” 

-

An hour later sees them in the living room, cookie in each of their hands while they’re cuddled on the couch, despite Stan’s protests about eating on the furniture. Now, Stan has an arm around Bill while Bill’s back is pressed to his chest, his free hand occupied with attempting to eat the cookie in such a way where zero crumbs fell. 

Beverly, on Bill’s lap and using his abdomen as a pillow, looks up at him and smiles softly. She draws a little heart with her finger on his side. “We gonna talk now?” She asks it quietly enough so that the rest, engaged in hushed side conversations, doesn’t pick it up. 

He nods. “We sh-should.” 

Unbeknownst to them, Richie had tuned in. He peeks over at Bev and Bill, over Ben’s shoulder. “Is it talk-o’clock?” He asks. 

“Richie,” Beverly laughs. 

“What?” He asks. “Oh, don’t mind me. Not eavesdropping-” He holds his hands up, crossing his heart and then shaking his head. “Just got quiet over here in hunk paradise,” he tells them, snuggling more between Ben and Mike, who both give him affectionate looks with their blushing faces. 

Eddie, tucked into Mike’s side so far Bill can only see the side of his face, smiles at the whole thing. “Okay,” he says, sitting up. “Let’s talk.” 

All expectant eyes go to him and Bill leans back into Stan, whose eyes he cannot see from this angle. 

“Hi,” he says. 

“Hey, honey,” Mike replies. 

Richie smiles, encouraging. “Give the crowd some more, Billy.”

Bill first cracks his knuckles, trying to formulate what he wanted to say while Eddie flinched at the loud popping noises and muttered something about arthritis. At last, he settles on something like this: upset about the book, upset about a lot of things, stutter stops from communicating. 

“I’m upset about my b-b-book not g-getting p-published,” he says. 

He feels a hand on his knee and looks up into soulful blue eyes. Ben’s. “That’s understandable, but it’s good.” The hand squeezes gently. “Really good. I read it all in one sitting.” 

“He did,” Beverly adds. “And his eyes kept bugging out of his head and he looked fascinated the entire time.” She cups her hand over her mouth, voice going to a cheesy whisper. “I would know, I was there.” 

His face heats up and Bill suppresses a smile. “Thank you.” 

The hand goes away and Ben gives a small nod, smiling at him. 

“Anything else?” Stan asks. 

“Yeah. There is, a-actually.” 

“Go on,” says Eddie. There’s a look on his face- on all their faces, like they know what he’s about to say. It clicks then that they’ve always known. Of course they have. That’s the thing with them, why the seven had made it so far together. They always know. What matters is him having the courage to say it anyway. For them. For himself. 

Bill swallows and then clears his throat, hoping that paves the way for the passage of the words. “I never tuh-talk-” Don’t stop, they don’t mind. It’s okay. Keep talking. “-to you guys because it’s h-huh-hard-” They’re still listening. This is good. You’ll feel better. “-f-for me to g-get out th-the words.”

When Stan’s arms go around his stomach and tighten around him in a hug, he chokes up. Beverly sees it first and kisses his abdomen through his flannel shirt. “Thank you for telling us that, buttercup.” 

“And we’ll always listen, too,” Stan cuts in. “I know you don’t like it when you slip up on the words, but we just want to hear from you.” 

He nods, speechless with something that felt like love and being free. 

Mike’s smiling- beaming. There isn’t a word in the dictionary that would equate or near doing justice to the angelic expression on his face. “We love you so much, sweet pea. Nothing will ever change that.”

“It makes us happy to help you,” Richie says. 

Eddie leans forward, kissing his forehead. “So let us.” 

“Well now I’m g-gonna cry,” Bill says, giving a watery laugh. 

Ben’s hand returns to his knee, squeezing again. Grounding. Caring. “It’s okay,” he says softly. 

He’s not sure if a few tears leaking from the corners of his eyes even count as crying, but it does count as progress and being vulnerable. “And suh-sometimes it’s h-hard to w-w-want to be open about things, because I’ve n-never buh-been…” he trails off, mouth open as he tries to find the words. 

“Emotionally vulnerable?” Mike offers. Bill nods, smiling a little. “Th-that. Thank you.”

“This is a good start,” Beverly says. 

Bill smiles when he feels Stan’s thumb sweep up a tear, humming an agreement to Beverly. She props herself up and kisses him. They’re all here. Stan steady at his back, Beverly at his front. Ben’s hand. Richie’s eyes. Eddie’s proud smile. Mike’s happiness written across his features. 

And they always will be. 

**Author's Note:**

> Spare comments and kudos? :D


End file.
